“Hey Trav. Do you need a ride home today, or are you getting one from your uh, brother?” The words seem to catch in Corey’s mouth, like he’s not sure which word to use in the mostly empty locker room. Brother or boyfriend, family or lover. One, both, all of the above.

“He’s supposed to drive me, but if it’s not out of your way…” I say slowly. I focus my gaze on the t-shirt in my hands so as to avoid Corey’s stare.

“What’s up, man,” he says quietly. I tug on the shirt, followed by my sweatshirt, followed by one shoulder-strap of my backpack.

“If I tell you, will you promise not to lose your shit?” I ask. He nods. I pause and wait for the locker room door to slam behind the last members of the rest of the track team. Once the sound is finished reverberating around the tiled walls, I throw my backpack onto the floor again and sprawl across the bench.

“Garen proposed,” I say. Corey blinks.

“Proposed what?” he says. I raise my eyebrows at him, and he copies the movement. “You mean like…”

“Yeah,” I say. “He asked me to marry him.”

“What the fuck?” Corey says. “Are you joking?”

“Not even a little bit. And he wasn’t either. I don’t know what to do,” I say. Corey slumps against the lockers and sinks onto the floor. We both stay where we are for several minutes, the silence thick between us. Finally, Corey speaks again.

“What did you say?” I shrug.

“Nothing, I guess. It was really sudden and I had to go take my English exam, so I didn’t get a chance to answer—”

“Wait, your English exam was on Monday,” Corey interrupts. I nod. “Today’s fucking Friday. You’re telling me that in the past four days, you didn’t have enough spare time to accept or decline a marriage proposal? Are you shitting me, Travis fucking McCall?”

“I didn’t know what to say, Corey! I’m seventeen years old, and it’s not like it’s even legal here,” I snap. “He… he said afterwards that he didn’t mean now, necessarily. Maybe not for a long time, even, because it would make more sense to wait until we’re out of the house, or out of college, or whatever. So it’s not like he expects me to run off to Vegas with him or something, but come on. It’s… he wants to be my husband.”

“Well, you love him, don’t you?” Corey asks. The concept of him even needing to ask that makes my heart twist, and I feel myself nodding before I can even really formulate thoughts.

“God, more than anything,” I say. Corey shrugs.

“Then talk to him about it. If you actually do love him, then you should talk to him, because otherwise it’s just gonna fuck everything up for you two,” he says. “Now, you said he’s supposed to give you a ride home, so he’s gonna give you a ride home. I’ll see you Monday, okay?”

I nod and watch him shut his locker and head for the door. I can only bring myself to sit there in the silence for another minute before I collect my duffel and backpack and head out too. The second I push open the door, I wish I hadn’t. Garen is seated halfway down the hall, on the floor in front of the music room. His guitar and Ben are both with him.

“It’s the bridge that’s fucked up, you know? The chorus is fine, but the bridge just sounds like it doesn’t belong.”

Ben nods along, tapping the sheet music spread out in front of them. “Yeah, the tune is fine, but the lyrics are wrong here. It sounds like a chorus in itself, and it throws the whole thing off.”

“Exactly. That’s exactly it. And I don’t want to play it if it’s just going to sound like shit. It’s too important for that,” Garen says. Ben blinks, then smiles slightly.

“I know. You’ve made that abundantly clear. And he’s a lucky guy,” he says.

“I know I am,” I say before I can stop myself. Garen stuffs the papers in his guitar case and jumps to his feet.

“Travis. Hi,” he says. “Just let me get my stuff out of the room, and we can go, okay? Okay.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a set of keys which he uses to unlock the music room door. Seeing my surprise and noting Garen’s lack of explanation, Ben shrugs.

“All of the Musical Theory students have copies of the keys. Jeff— that’s our teacher— thinks we should have full access to it whenever we want to use it,” he says. “Garen might abuse the privilege, however.”

“Yeah,” I say with a small smile. “He’s… pretty amazing. When it comes to the music, you know?”

“I figured it was like that,” Ben says flatly. “It was obvious he was into someone from the start, and a live-in fuck toy can’t be beat for convenience.”

My face burns, and for a second, I want to deny it. I want to tell him he’s all wrong about everything, that Garen and I aren’t what we are. Instead, I close my eyes and ball my hands into fists at my sides.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say softly. “I’m not just a fuck toy, and I’m not just convenient. He loves me.”

“Sure he does. Just like how he loved me, right? Before you?” Ben says.

“That’s bullshit. Stop,” I order. He doesn’t, though. Instead, he stands up, brushes off his jeans, and takes two large steps forward so we’d be nose to nose if not for the five inch height difference. Then somehow, his hands are on my stomach, tugging my shirt up just enough to let his fingertips settle on the skin right above my jeans.

“Isn’t it funny,” he whispers, “how Garen fucks you like he plays his guitar? Eyes closed, hands everywhere at once… lips parted… and that look on his face. You know the one. Like he just stepped into fucking Xanadu.”

“You’re full of shit,” I say. He scans my face for a moment, almost as if trying to decide if the conversation is worth pursuing. His gaze hesitates at my lips, then finally locks onto my eyes.

“He has a scar. A little half-moon, about half the length of my little finger. Right here.” His hand slips into my jeans as he says it, but stays at my hip instead of straying towards my cock. His middle finger traces the shape onto my skin, but I don’t need him to do that. I already know the scar he’s talking about. It’s small, invisible while he’s dressed. But it’s very, very real.

“When?” I say hoarsely.

“A week after he moved here. Do you remember the weekend he spent with me and Alex? Friday night at Alex’s house, Saturday night at mine.”

“Which day?” I ask.

“All three. Friday, Saturday, Sunday. First at the party at Alex’s, in a spare bedroom, then at my house on Saturday night and Sunday morning. And again the Thursday after,” Ben says. Four days. At least four times, and I heard about… zero. “Are you going to cry?”

“What uh… what’s going on?” he says. After a moment, Ben stuffs his hands in his pockets and turns around. He and Garen stare at each other for several seconds, until finally, Ben turns back around and heads down the hall for the stairs. Garen lowers his backpack slowly to the floor next to his guitar case and crosses his arms.

“You gave me such shit for kissing him. And then I find you with his hands down your pants,” he says flatly.

“Hand. Singular. And it’s pretty fair, seeing as how they’ve apparently already been down yours,” I say. His face doesn’t change. Doesn’t morph into some horrified mask of mortification at the idea that I know about it. Instead, it remains exactly the same, like he expected this to happen.

“You knew I wasn’t a virgin. I never pretended to be,” he says. Rage is boiling beneath my skin.

“I didn’t think that meant you fucked some random guy and didn’t tell me about it!”

“It wasn’t while we were together. It wasn’t even close, so I didn’t think it would matter to you. Do you really want a list of every guy I’ve ever fucked around with? Fine—”

“Garen, don’t.”

“Ben’s the most recent, other than you, and James was first, but fuck if there weren’t a few in between. Dave, Matt, Patrick, Chris, Shawn, Drew, Brian, Jeff, Scott, Mike— actually, there were two Mikes. Then if you wanna count everyone I fucked in Europe when I spent the summer there before junior year, we’ve got Jacques, Thomas, Luc, and Guillaume, all from France. And then Diego and Eduardo from Spain, and Anthony, Vin, and Mario from Italy.”

He stops there, breathing hard. It takes me a minute to realize that air is only entering my lungs through short, sporadic gasps as well.

“Is that it?” I say. He shakes his head and steps towards me, but can’t seem to decide where to put his hands. They eventually settle on my shoulders.

“No, it’s not. Because the thing I really have to tell you is a lot more important. I’ve had sex over a hundred times, with nearly thirty different guys. I’ve done some weird stuff, some kinky shit, too. I’m the polar opposite of purity, okay? But none of it… fuck, none of it meant anything until you. I started fucking just after I turned fifteen, and for almost three years, I thought I got it, I thought I knew everything there was to know about being gay and having sex and every combination of those two concepts. But when you touch me, Travis… God, I feel like I’m a virgin all over again, like this whole thing is uncharted territory. And it’s fucking terrifying, partially because you are just a mildly psychotic choice of mine for a boyfriend—”

I laugh, and his hands shift up to my face.

“—but also because, you… you make me into someone worlds better than I ever thought I could be. You make me into a real human being, instead of just some cocky little rich boy with an expensive guitar and fancy lyrics. You make me into a man. The best man I could ever be.”

I’m unable to open my eyes for several minutes, certain that if I do, I’ll start crying and ruin this whole thing with big, embarrassing crocodile-tears. It’s with my eyes closed that I find his lips with mine and whisper against them, “Okay.”